


Sweet Little Lies

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And now he sees with stark clarity that if he could wind back time and grab Sherlock by the jacket in the sitting room, keeping him there and refusing to let him go, it might all be different." An angsty post-ASiP ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Little Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Pequeñas dulces mentiras](https://archiveofourown.org/works/913501) by [randomsociopath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsociopath/pseuds/randomsociopath)



 

“So who the hell is John Watson, then?” Greg Lestrade asks, stretching the kinks out of his back. Not as young as he used to be, he’ll admit it.

Sherlock turns, traces a finger down exposed ribs and the hint of love handles over Greg’s hip. “My new flatmate. A doctor. Ex-soldier. Why?”

“He shot a man without ruffling  a hair last night, Sherlock. If I’m going to turn a blind eye to it, I want to know what sort of man I’m letting run.” Greg admires the early morning light slanting over Sherlock’s taut, bare stomach. He so rarely stays that it’s an unusual sight, and Greg basks in it.

When Sherlock showed up at about 1 am and smelling of Chinese food, Greg  pulled him into his bed almost immediately, stripping him naked and laying him out to be touched and kissed and fucked, thoroughly as possible, without preamble, even without words. It was too close of a call, this time.

It’s been this way a few years now, this odd little dance of theirs, and it suits him down to the ground. Regular lovely sex with a gorgeous wreck of a man that doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about how much time he spends on the job - well, it was like dreaming, sometimes.

But tonight had been somewhat odd. Sherlock had been distracted, wound up and unfocused. He had enjoyed himself though, Greg thought smugly. It’s just…well. His heart wasn’t in it, not really. And Greg’s pretty sure that distraction has a name.

“You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you.”  Greg says. It’s not an accusation, really.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock says, feigning innocence. “Of course I’m not.”

“Don’t play that with me, you know I can see right through it, you berk.”

 “Well, you have to admit he’s…interesting.” Sherlock says, eyes turning dark and contemplative.

Greg’s heart drops to his stomach. Oh god, here it is. The beginning of the end of comfortable shags and post-case dinners, and the quiet reliance on a relationship that neither of them had seen fit to define. And now he sees with stark clarity that if he could wind back time and grab Sherlock by the jacket in the sitting room, keeping him there and refusing to let him go, it might all be different.  But he can’t.

So he simply rolls over, grabs Sherlock’s hip and pushes him onto his back in the pillows, kissing him hungrily, desperately. If this is it, the end, then it’s going to be a blaze of glory.

 

 _Title from Fleetwood Mac's "Little Lies."_


End file.
